Justice is Red
by Sorge
Summary: The leader of the insurrection faces his failure.


**Justice is Red**

The former leader of an ill-fated insurrection sat in silence that belied his pain. The thrumming of the lifeboat's powerful engine washed over him, rattling his armor against the form-fitting black bodysuit that had been the symbol of his allegiance to a cause. Crimson flash on black plates—blood for justice. Now they were just colors. Blood he had in spades, but justice had deserted him.

Grief clawed at his throat, making it hard to swallow. He was a commander without a command now. The woman he loved lay lifeless on the deck, and the men he'd come to trust were gone, destroyed in one cruel sweep. No oath of vengeance could bring them back. If there had been any justice in the galaxy he would have died with them in that room.

He'd been too ambitious in his plans, too arrogant in underestimating his foes. He'd never anticipated an attack on the Longshore facility and his men had paid with their lives. One at a time and by the dozen they'd stepped up to die. Some for the cause, some for their buddies, some for the money, but down to the very last man, they'd died believing in _him_, waiting for him to spring the master plan that didn't exist. It was on his shoulders, it was his failure as a commander.

The brief battle with the Freelancers was sharp in his memory, vivid in bloodstained hues. Even when he screwed his eyes shut, he couldn't purge it from his mind. From behind closed eyes, he relived the showdown from every angle as a helpless observer. The gunshot, his cry of anguish, the terrific jolt up his arm as his axe found only armor where flesh should be—and the sudden spike of terror as his adversary shrugged off the mortal wound and just kept coming. All the while, he was conscious of C.T. fighting hand-to-hand with her opponent as they danced in brutal choreography. Now she was dead while they lived—injustice.

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, sinking back in the escape couch. He tried to remember her as she'd been in life, but it all came back to her bloodless face, meeting his eyes with a wordless accusation. It was not the Connie he wanted to remember. He wanted to remember the Connie from before the war, barefoot in the grass with her face rose-tinted in the sunset, back home on Earth when he'd been just a fresh-faced marine and she a butcher's daughter.

He drew a deep breath through the filter of her helmet, trying to forget the scent of her blood. The helmet didn't smell like his. It smelled like a different wearer and different soap, clean and antiseptic. There was a faint impression of floral fragrance, the kind she'd been wearing that blissful night on New Harmony. Just a brief glimpse of what could have been if there had been any justice at all.

The lifeboat engines were powerful: there were several inhabited planets within his range, and from there he could board a transport to anywhere in the galaxy. He could bury her on some backwater world and take time to mourn. He could start a new life.

Deep down, he knew it wouldn't be that easy. He'd been branded a heretic and a traitor by the same UNSC he'd served so faithfully, and they'd surely be looking for him. What kind of life could he really have? Where could he go that the agents of Project Freelancer couldn't reach? There was really only one course of action that he could pursue: vengeance.

The datacard she'd given him sat dormant in his pocket. He fished it out and held it aloft, peering into its glowing data matrices as though trying to divine its contents. This was it. This was what Connie had died to protect. He knew of other organizations with no love for the UNSC, and with these secrets, he could buy their allegiance. He'd start from scratch, put together a new army and take the fight to the Director. It was a heavy thought, but he was a patient man.

Something bumped him from behind. His helmet drifted past in the zero gravity environment and he instinctively grasped it. He peered thoughtfully into the mirrored visor, seeing himself as she'd seen him. Her helmet looked grim and determined in the reflection. She'd always been stronger—her rage against the Director had been fiercer than his own. But that anger had not been enough—he'd seen it surface in her final moments, trying to will her broken limbs back to action in defiance of death. It had hurt him to see her die in such ugliness. He hoped her soul was at rest wherever it was.

He'd carry on the fight in her stead and finish it for the both of them. As long as he held on to her memory, she didn't feel quite gone. He'd take up her ambition along with her armor, a solution both fitting and practical. As long as he wore the armor, he didn't have to worry about it falling into enemy hands. He'd space her body before he made planetfall—a harsh but pragmatic solution. Her legacy would live on and keep them guessing.

He couldn't bring her back, he couldn't have saved her. But he could at least honor her memory with action. Blood for justice.

"Don't worry, Connie. Next time we meet…" he began, but trailed off as his hand brushed against a strange protrusion at his side. A cold fear awoke in his stomach as he slowly traced the outline of the M6D magnum sidearm that he'd buckled around his waist that morning and forgotten about. He checked the slide—loaded.

Twelve rounds. Two freelancers. Two shots. Sudden panic gripped him as he flashed back to the battle, remembering all the moments when his hand might have dipped, drawn the weapon and fired. He whirled, looking back at the lifeless body. Her eyes met his in wordless accusation.

In the silence of space, a soldier screamed.


End file.
